


Seeking Refuge

by layton_kyouju



Series: Our Rewound Future [2]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: (in later chapters probably), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Azran Legacy Spoilers, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I guess we'll see how this goes?, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Puzzle Family AU, emmy is over a decade younger than claire and hersh. keep that nasty shit out of here., rating may change later if things get darker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 15:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11405046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/layton_kyouju/pseuds/layton_kyouju
Summary: When young Emmeline is proven innocent by two strangers, she is intrigued by her rescuers who ask for nothing in return.[ If Emmy had been taken in by kinder souls. ]





	1. Samaritans

“But I didn’t  _ do  _ anything!”

Anger boiling, overflowing. Trapped in a stuffy building with stuffy cops because of a stuffy  _ brat  _ who is  _ wrong _ and whose little khaki shorts might as well be on fire. She digs her nails into her palm, feels old scabs on her blanched knuckles split.

The amber glow of the setting sun pouring through the large windows does nothing to steady her temper. Time is slipping by. Uncle will be furious if she is not back soon.

Everything is hot, her face, her hands, the stagnant air. It makes her stomach churn.

This officer keeping her here is also a hell of a piece of work, all self-assured and boisterous. It makes Emmeline’s blood course like a wildfire, burning through each sinew that itches to end all of this in a much quicker method. Her fist aches to connect with the cop’s flapping jaw, but she knows it will only end with her in more trouble.

“You and the rest of the pickpocket scum in this city are finished!” he barks, a thumb jerking toward a kid between them, “He says it was you. Are you calling him a liar?”

She fights back a sneer. “No, of course not! I-!” Her purse thumps against her forearms through her rough, wide gestures. Having enough of it, she grips the bag and tosses it down on the row of seats beside her with a growl. She hates the damn thing, but she has to blend in, and it doesn’t help that most of her civilian clothes have no pockets.

“She stole the wallet that was in my pocket,” the kid pipes in from his spot on the bench. His voice scratches of the onset of puberty.

Rage fumes through the older teen. “ _ Liar! _ ” she snaps, and her furious gaze jars back to the officer. “This is ridiculous! I’m telling you, this child is confusing me with someone else!”

The man gives a huff. A wide, smug grin is almost masked under his sharp mustache. Almost. “Oh, that old one.” He looks to the boy. “Is that right, son? You just confused?” His voice drips with a sarcasm that makes the girl see red.

“She did it,” the kid whines.

Fury bursts forth from Emmeline with a resounding “ _ Shut it! _ ” that echoes around the empty station lobby, then dies in the late afternoon haze.

“Might we be of help?” asks a new voice, smooth and low.

Perhaps not so empty.

Startled, the young lady turns to find the source.

A man and a woman now stand next to the halted squabble. Two pairs of kind eyes, curious, gentle.

The first thing Emmeline draws from them is the man’s hat, which is borderline excessive in height. He himself is by no means tall, but the addition cuts an imposing silhouette. Yet everything else about him, his clothes, his features, are round and soft. Warm.

Deep crimson burns carve over the left side of the woman’s face, attempting to be concealed behind curls of copper. In her hand she clutches a leather journal near to bursting against her hip. Her unburdened hand reaches up to adjust the glasses set on her speckled nose. A similar approachable aura flows from her in waves.

It all feels odd to the teenager. So foreign.

A brief silence, everyone taking in each other’s presence. The ticking of the clock on the wall drums through the entryway against discolored, aging brick.

The cop waves a dismissive hand to the couple, shattering the lull. “It’s all under control! This lady here swiped this poor boy’s wallet!”

Emmeline wants to crawl under a rock and hide as the new parties look to her, then the boy, then back to her, an intrigued glint in their eyes. Something analytical, but it’s not conniving or malicious in any way, nor disappointed. She knows that look well enough to tell. Nonetheless, she can feel the humiliation smolder in her face.

Mr. Top Hat sets a hand to his chin, his attention shifting back to the cop. “Could you give us the details of this case, Officer Grosky?”

“The details are, well-” The other man seems taken off guard, his assured stance faltering, but he soon recovers his bravado, “Of course I can!”

He clears his throat before summarizing the situation. “As he was walking through the streets, this young man noticed that his wallet was missing. He felt that the woman who had just passed him seemed suspicious, and he informed a patrolman. When the patrolman checked the contents of her bag, he found the stolen wallet! Those are the details of the case.” His arms cross over his broad chest, sure in his judgement. “Open and shut, if you ask me.”

A moment of silence. The couple share a furtive glance.

“May we see the wallet in question?” Ms. Glasses asks the officer. Her voice is comforting like tea with honey. At first Grosky furrows his brow, perplexed, but he then shrugs and reaches over to the front desk where the wallet sits. He passes it over to the woman, who turns it over in her hands, its supple beige leather gliding under her fingertips. The man beside her also studies it for a moment.

“Young man,” begins Mr. Top Hat, looking to the boy, “did you inform the officer that this isn’t actually your wallet?”

The kid flinches, color melting from his cheeks. “Wh-what do you mean?”

On the same thread as her companion, Ms. Glasses continues. “Well, it’s a style preferred mostly by women,” she says, popping open the button of the small pocketbook before clicking it shut again. “Could this be your mother’s wallet, by any chance?”

The man nods in agreement, eyes closed as the pieces fall into place. “Perhaps she asked you to run a few errands, and perhaps you saw a pair of new shoes you liked. Perhaps you just couldn’t resist buying those shoes,” a single finger gestures to the boy’s feet, “that you are currently wearing. And perhaps you got scared and are now trying to pretend that the money was stolen.” His eyes reopen, but still no spite lingers within them. “Is that right?”

“Uh-I-!” the boy sputters. His fingers knit together, knuckles growing pale. “N-No, it’s not right.”

Despite the retaliation, Ms. Glasses ties the final threads. “To pin the blame on someone else, you slipped your mother’s wallet into this young lady’s bag. How are we doing so far?”

The officer balks. “What kind of proof do you two have to back up these accusations?!”

“It’s all right, Grosky,” the woman placates with a hand raised toward him. “We’ll explain once he tells us what happened.”

Small loafers stamp on the floor. “There’s nothing to tell!” snips the boy.

Mr. Top hat tips his head to the side, his expression calm in face of the sharp rebuttal. “Are you certain? A gentleman never lies, you know.”

The child hesitates at that. “I didn’t-!” Little fingers clench into fists. He jitters like a shaken bottle before the words spit out, his eyes glistening and damp as his words hitch in his throat. “Oh, but everyone else has them! I just wanted to fit in!” Regret blossoms over his face in a tiny grimace.

No accusatory statements come from the man. No reprimanding. Just a slight frown pulling at his lips. “But this way?” His voice is softer, mollifying. “Do you think you’d be able to truly enjoy those shoes knowing that this innocent woman was in prison?” He gives a small, melancholy smile. “If you spend your entire life trying to fit in with others, you’ll never belong anywhere. In this life, one must always be true to oneself. Is that clear?”

The boy nods, his gaze falling to the tiles checkered beneath his spotless shoes. “Yes, sir,” he admits, his voice faint. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Ms. Glasses has a smile grace her features as well before handing the pocketbook back to the child. “That’s a good lad. If you would like, we’ll help you return the shoes.”

His head snaps back up to meet the couple, eyes wide and bright. “You will? You’re not going to arrest me?!” A smile spreads across his lips despite the precarious tears waiting to fall. Within it holds a balance of confusion, relief, and joy.

“Well, that’s really up to Officer Grosky here,” the man replies, addressing the cop, who still appears baffled.

Realizing the attention of the group is now upon him, Grosky’s forehead creases with a weight as if this were the most important decision of his career. “Making a false report is punishable by 15 years in Siberia!” is his roaring claim, theatrical with a clear hint of jest, “ _ But _ I’ll let it slide.” He looks to the newcomers, puzzled. “How did you two know?”

Ms. Glasses chimes in first. “Well, his hands were shaking as if he were the one who had been ’caught.’ Plus, his shoes are brand new, and there was only a little money remaining in the wallet.”

“In addition,” says her company, “this young lady here doesn’t seem at all like the type who would rob a young boy. Once you examine those elements, a logical conclusion arises.”

Any other words shared were lost to Emmeline’s ears. These people, total strangers, had just proven she was innocent. They said nothing crude or scathing, nothing to get under her skin and consume her from the inside out like acid.

“I believe there is someone else you should apologize to as well,” the woman hints to the boy, nodding her head toward Emmeline.

A hot wash of shame pours over the kid’s cheeks when he understands. He pivots toward the teenager, his head low. “I’m sorry, miss,” he mumbles.

Jarred back from her thoughts, Emmeline freezes. “Oh-Uh-I-!” she stammers, perspiration beading on her forehead and neck. She clamps her lips shut before clearing her throat and nodding. It seems to be a satisfactory response, as the boy turns away, back to the good samaritans who intervened.

And in an instant they’re gone.

Emmeline’s heart seizes in her ribs. She bolts to the double doors, bursting through them to the outside world. Panicked eyes flicker back and forth, squinting in the flood of daylight. They halt on a towering brown hat beside waves of ginger hair. Thank picarats.

“Wait!” she calls, vaulting down the stairs. Their footsteps pause as they turn back to look at her from the sidewalk, the same amiable expressions on their faces. The boy only stares to the ground.

Once her loafers meet solid sidewalk, Emmeline trots up to them. “Thank you so much!” she says between puffs for air.

The pair smile, so warm and genial. The man tips his hat to her. “No need to thank us, miss. Helping those in need is the right thing to do and the duty of any gentleperson.” As if it were typical, as familiar to them as breathing.

“Have a good evening,” the woman adds, “and get home safely.” With a final wave, they all turn away down the cobbled street.

Emmeline’s mind races. Everything is so surreal, muddled by the glare of the sun and her own emotions swirling like a torrent. She feels like a bonfire extinguished with a cold rush of water, numb, drained. But also calm. Placated, like the world settling in quiet tranquility after a vicious storm.

They had stopped. They had helped her. They had done it as if it were the simplest thing in the world and expected nothing in return.

It made Emmeline curious.

The reel sputters as the teenager snaps back to the present to see her company gone. “ _ Wait!  _ Come back!” she shouts, moving to dash in the direction they left from her sight. “What’re your names?!” But her words are in vain. The trio are already down the block, on their way and racing the descending sun. A heavy disappointment weighs in her stomach like a stone.

“They, miss, are Hershel Layton and Claire Foley,” comes the gruff voice from before, but it’s no longer accusatory or caustic.

She looks over to see Officer Grosky descending the front steps. “Don’t let appearances fool you; they may seem naive, but their intellect is unparalleled.” He stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets, also looking down the street the others had taken. “They help us out from time to time with our tougher cases, you know,” he shrugs, “pickpockets and whatnot.”

A glimmer of hope lessens the burden in Emmeline’s chest. “Hershel Layton and Claire Foley,” she whispers under her breath. She grips the strap of her handbag tighter, the leather squeaking beneath her fingers. “I’ll remember that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just a rewrite of the scene where Emmy and Layton meet in canon, so there's not much that's new besides Claire now being part of the picture. More substantial information will come in the following chapters!
> 
> Thank you for reading!! Comments/kudos are greatly appreciated.


	2. Pursue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emmeline has been thinking a lot as of late.

Emmeline does remember.

She remembers during her daily physical training, when her muscles burn and her skin stings from the force of contact. Kicking and pummeling stuffed forms that have a vague humanity to them, but it has faded with time. An ache that clings to her like relentless vines. At target practice, as something distant and heavy makes her hesitate before pulling back the trigger. The bite of gunpowder is acidic in her lungs, makes her cough as her eyes water. Metal feels like poison in her palms, the sensation lingering well after she has left the shooting range.

She remembers while sitting in Uncle’s history lectures, the small, haphazard classroom packed with other agents-in-training. Their dull blue uniforms blur into one another in a desolate sea of navy.

She remembers when walking through the private library as she stares at row upon row of archaeological and historical texts. Dust, books fraying at their bindings. In the back of her mind she wishes there were a bit more variety.

She remembers every Saturday, when she makes the effort to travel by Scotland Yard before returning to the facility at the outskirts of the city for the night. A week goes by since the Wallet Incident. Two. A month, bringing with it the bite of oncoming winter. The flicker of hopeful expectation in her chest grows dimmer with each passing day.

She remembers as she lays on her bed, staring at the ceiling with her arms tucked under her pillow. The quiet that engulfs the compound is welcomed after long days surrounded by people. Heat and the constant buzz of shifting bodies and overlapping voices.

In the silence, with cool, dim light trickling through the window of her dorm, Emmeline’s thoughts are clear.

_ “In this life, one must always be true to oneself.” _

Those words resonate deep within her. Sending out ripples like a pebble falling into a still pool. She is not certain why, but there is a comfort that emanates from them, reassurance, a warm blanket on a bitter night. A distant, faded memory of strong arms holding her close, powerful yet gentle. Rough flannel rubbing against her cheek as she nestles into the pillar of warmth. She feels safe in the embrace, safer than she has felt in a long time. Home.

The darkness is welcoming as sleep whisks her away.

Existential ponderings follow Emmeline throughout her waking hours in a gripping daze. Her role in Targent, her purpose as a whole, the motivations that drift through all the intricate and interwoven lives outside the facility. Crawling over her flesh like lightening. Passing conversations are bubbles in the air as she walks down London’s streets; art, music, family, life. They are fleeting glimpses into worlds so disparate from her own.

No one  _ talks _ in Targent. There are gruff orders to agents before they vanish for goodness knows how long; sometimes they do not return, and sometimes more arrive than the number that left. There are urgent whispers which go silent when she walks by. There are distant sobs that echo down vacant halls, a density that smothers the cluster of buildings; a thick smog she never gave much merit until now.

Days pass in a haze as questions hum in her skull.

The teen is snapped from her musing by the bustle of other agents in the lecture room as they prepare to leave, and so she gathers her belongings into her rucksack and follows the crowd out the door. As she steps into the droning hallway she senses a presence falling in step beside her. It’s solid and elicits a sensation of being watched up her spine to prickle at her neck, but she still feels a loyalty to it. A drive to make it proud.

Pressure on her shoulder halts her steps. Her eyes shoot up, meeting the cold, dark glass shielding her guardian’s stare.

“You seem distracted, Emmeline,” he says in that softer tone he never uses with anyone else.

She shrugs, her eyes traveling to worn tiles under their feet. The crowd spills around them like they are resolute stones in a rushing creek. “It’s nothing. I’ve just been thinking.”

A frown tugs at the man’s lips, unconvinced. “Here, we can talk in my office.” He moves forward and melds into the crowd, Emmeline falling in step behind him.

They meander their way through the facility’s endless blank hallways, rats in a winding maze. She knows the pattern by heart. At last their journey ends at an unassuming door, identical to the hundreds they have passed. A small metal plaque that reads “DR LEON BRONEV” in etched letters is its sole unique trait.

Countless relics adorn Bronev’s office, scattered among newspaper clippings and thick tomes with worn, peeling covers. Odd knick knacks from across the globe appear to be more than paperweights collecting dust. They vary from ragged fossils to colorful pottery to little clay objects that may be the archaic version of fine art. Or it could just be a strange, amorphous blob that remained preserved. It’s difficult to tell.

Bronev rounds the center of the room and sits in his chair, which squeaks under his form. Resolute and calm, like a watchful raven. He gestures with his hand for Emmeline to take the seat opposite of him. She obeys.

The man slides off his glasses, revealing deep sienna eyes that exude innumerable late nights. He sets the glasses on his desk in front of him, knits his fingers as he sets them on the immaculate surface. Full attention on his ward. “Now, what’s on your mind?”

Emmeline looks down at her trainers and picks at a bandage on her left wrist. A sudden dread wells in her stomach, then hardens like ice. “I dunno,” she mutters.

“Mumbling.”

She straightens in a jolt, spine pressing hard against the uncomfortable chair’s back. “Well,” she begins, but she has no idea where to begin, where these never ending threads originate. After a moment she meets Bronev’s steady gaze. “Why am I the youngest one here?”

The man is stone-faced, unphased. He sets a hand on his bearded chin, brushes a finger over his mustache. Silence fills the room, so thick Emmeline can’t help shifting in her seat just to prove to herself that time has not frozen.

His deep voice shatters the quiet like footsteps in a puddle. “Young people are often,” he searches for his words, careful, “ _ reluctant _ to commit themselves to a cause such as ours. They are focused on the superfluous that has no importance in the grand scheme of all things. They are dependant, using crutches to get through meaningless lives without purpose and detached from reality.”

Bronev leans forward, his eyes glowing embers.

“But you, Emmeline, are different. You have such great potential, and I trust you more than a majority of my higher up officers. Energy, determination, resilience; these are marks of an invaluable agent of Targent.” The praise sends warmth coursing through Emmeline’s bones, and a smile sneaks onto her face as a muted smirk appears on her guardian’s.

A sharp knock resonates from the office door. Bonev’s usual rough tone returns to his voice as his rigid gaze flickers toward the sound. “What is it?” he barks.

The door creaks open, and a head peeks through the gap in the threshold. An anxious frown pulls at their thin lips, the rest of their face hidden by dark glasses and the shadow of their hat brim. “Pardon the interruption, sir,” they say, voice wavering, “but the head engineer would like to speak with you about the airship’s progress.” Quaking fingers clutch the wooden frame, glistening with sweat.

A grumble rolls in the older man’s throat. He snaps on his glasses in a swift motion, his inner world guarded once again. Rising from his seat, Bronev rounds his desk and marches to the door.

“Emmeline, we will discuss this further at a later time,” he says as he strides past her. She turns in her chair to follow him, but she is met by the door clicking shut.

She is alone.

At least the office is quiet. The teen finds herself glancing about the room again, drifting from each odd and end lining the shelves and glass-veiled cases. The lack of windows makes the place dim with desolate shadows clinging like cobwebs to the walls. She stops at the far corner on a towering cupboard.

Drawer upon drawer is packed with newspapers. Why Bronev hoards them she isn’t positive, but she assumes it’s archaeological research for the most part. It seems to be a logical judgement.

She fidgets in her chair. That officer did say Mr. Layton and Ms. Foley often help Scotland Yard with difficult cases. Without a doubt those cases would be archived in the Times.

The curiosity writhing in her chest grows unbearable.

Emmeline’s chair scrapes against the floor as she hops to her feet and rounds the massive desk. The cabinet is far more imposing as she stands before it, but she won’t let a bit of intimidation stop her. She falls down into a squat, and her fingers wrap around the handle of the bottommost drawer. A brisk tug yields a groan from the metal cabinet. Her senses are struck by the thick scent of ink and newsprint.

She begins to dig.

Nails crisscross through the thin sheets of paper as alert eyes scan over bold headlines in thick letters. Black smudges coat her fingertips with each swipe.

A title halts the sharp movements.

_ Local Scientist and Professor Thwart Jewelry Theft Conglomerate _

Dark threads of ink swirl around two names and a small grayscale photograph tucked beneath the single paragraph article. She picks up the sheet and frees it from its brethren.

It’s them.

The photo is tiny, but the resemblance is undeniable as they stand before a cluster of reporters. She skims the paragraph, soaking in as much information she can glean from its few, sparse lines. One final phrase grabs her attention.

Gressenheller University. It’s listed as Mr. Top Hat’s place of work.

That following Saturday her destination is clear, and she feels ready to burst out of her skin with each sluggish hour. She no longer feels burdened with lead weights.

A quick bus ride leaves the teenager at the front steps of the university. She had passed by the campus a number of times but never paused long enough to take in its stately aura. It glistens in the sunlight breaking through the clouds, radiant with its towering windows and sunbaked brick. A peaceful little plaza adorned with well-trimmed hedges draws her to three sets of large double doors.

It’s all so colorful and bright compared to the cement and mortar that comprise Targent.

Emmeline makes the quick trek through the empty courtyard up to the entrance. A cozy lobby opens before her, accented with potted plants and cluttered bulletin boards. Hallways branch out like veins, reaching beyond the foyer’s trunk.

She realizes she has no idea where she’s going.

Her eyes dart about, searching in hope of a map or any other sign to give her a starting point. They settle on an elderly man seated on a bench, his attention focused on a letter in his hands. His brow is furrowed, and he reaches up to scratch his head. The little mop of hair on his crown slips askew, but he either pays it no mind or has no clue.

“For goodness’ sake, she's only  _ four _ . How could she possibly solve a puzzle this complex?” he mutters to himself, but a warmth indicative of pride swells in his voice. “She gets it for her mother.”

Emmeline’s boots connecting to the cold linoleum send small taps bouncing through the empty space. The sound jars the man’s bespeckled gaze up from the sheet as she approaches; it locks onto her. Emmeline freezes.

The man gives her a smile, the wrinkles laced from his eyes crinkling. “Hello, there, miss. Is there something I can help you with?”

She offers the man a smile in return, but it feels more like a wince. “Ah, I’m looking for Mr. To-er-Mr. Layton?” Anxious hands wring the strap of her bag. “I think he works here.”

His mustached grin widens. “Oh, you’re looking for Hershel. I believe I saw him not long ago,” he says, tapping his chin. The man frowns, his voice falling to a whisper. “Was it Hershel I saw? It must have been. No, yes, it was!” The teenager starts as his gaze pops back to her. “His office is just down this corridor.” He gestures to the hallway opening at his left.

Emmeline says her thanks before making her leave to the indicated section of the building.

Tawny light pours into the hall, slipping through gaps in the trees outside; dust particles dance in the veiled beams. Her footsteps echo through the silence. She passes each door and is tickled that in place of name placards there are images and icons designating each faculty member. A pair of thick-rimmed glasses, a dinosaur skull with fierce, jagged teeth, a violet crystal protruding from a hunk of granite.

She stops at the final door. An all-too familiar silk top hat.

Emmeline’s heart thunders against her ribs, in her ears, painful. Shaking hands, clammy and going numb. But she made it this far. There’s no sense in turning back now, and she was never one to give in to fear. Draw in a deep breath, hold, release.

Hesitant, she turns the knob. The lock gives no resistance, the door’s hinges squeaking as it creaks open.

••••••••••••••••••

When returning to his office from yet another dull department meeting, one of the last things Hershel is expecting to see when he opens the door is a figure folded in on itself lying on his sofa, their back facing him. A mess of dark, untamed hair, a glaring yellow cardigan, gray jeans tucked into worn boots.

The young professor halts, glances around, but there’s no visible explanation in sight. It wasn’t rare for students to stop by with questions about the next assignment or the like, but it’s Saturday. The number of students on campus is few and far between. Perhaps Rosa let them in?

Only one way to find out.

Hershel takes slow, measured steps toward the couch, careful not to disturb the newcomer. Soft and even breaths make their sides rise and fall. Their bag is discarded on the slated wood floor, which is scored and stained by the office’s many prior owners; Rosa would disagree on their source.

As he slips around the small coffee table, Layton notices the puzzle he had left incomplete before going to the meeting, but now the answer is etched in graphite at the bottom of the scrap of paper. The handwriting is not his own.

Kneeling beside the sofa, agita prickles in his stomach, but he fights past it with a deep breath. “Er, excuse me,” he murmurs, resting a hand on his unexpected guest’s shoulder, “Is everything all right?”

The figure jerks upright, and the sudden movement makes Hershel flinch backward. His legs slip out from under him, knocking him square on his behind with a  _ thump _ . Small fists wrapped in bandages held at the ready, a spattering of freckles over cheeks warped by a sneer, eyes like those of a cornered animal, piercing and alert. A genuine fear of getting socked in the face creeps up the professor’s throat.

They just stare at each other for a moment before the visitor’s expression softens to recognition, relief. Her fists lower, shoulders going lax as a smile brightens her youthful face. “It’s you.”

A realization ignites in Hershel's mind. He adjusts his hat, knocked crooked in his tumble.

“You’re the young lady from Scotland Yard,” he hears himself murmur. She gives him an enthusiastic nod. “How did you-?”

The answer comes before he can get the full question out. “I got your names from that cop and worked from there!” she says, triumphant in her success.

Her joy is contagious, forcing a small grin onto Hershel’s lips. “I must say, that’s some very impressive detective work.” He returns to his feet and smooths out the wrinkles in his sweater. The teenager appears to glow under the praise. “Is there something I can do for you? I assume there’s a reason you wanted to seek us out.”

Her confidence falters. “Oh, um,” she glances down at her laced fingers, “to be honest, I just wanted to say how grateful I am of you and Ms. Foley helping me.”

A soft flow of warmth radiates from his heart. “It was no trouble at all.” It freezes, an awareness snuffing it out like a candle. “Forgive me, but I don’t think we ever got your name.”

“Emmel-,” she cuts herself off, bites her lip before continuing, “My name is Emmy. Emmy Altava.”

Hershel smiles. “Well, it’s a pleasure to properly make your acquaintance, Miss Altava.” He reaches a hand toward her. “Hershel Layton, though it’s obvious you know that by now.” When Emmy grips his larger hand he can feel the utter strength in her shorter form course into him like static. He holds back a wince until their arms fall back at their sides. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

The teenager opens her mouth to speak, but her forehead creases. “I hadn’t thought this far ahead, actually,” she admits with a grimace, a hand burying into her thick hair to scratch at her head.

Layton chuckles, which appears to cheer Emmy as the corners of her lips curve upward. “That’s all right.”

Silence descends in the small, cluttered office. Discomfort bleeds through Hershel’s chest, but his guest does not seem to mind nor care. She steps away from the couch and begins to wander about the room, her gaze flickering to the artifacts and mementos that litter the place. “Are you an archaeologist?” she asks.

Hershel tucks his hands into his pockets, smiling despite the girl facing the other direction. “I am, as a matter of fact.”

When she moves to the far table she pauses at an open tome beside scattered excavation tools in a thin layer of dust. “Oh, hey, I know these letters. They’re Azranian.”

The professor’s brow rises. “You know of the Azran?” He is unsure why he is so surprised; he had been fourteen when the ancient civilization had wrenched it's way into his life whether it had been welcomed or not, yet it does not feel like a topic a majority of adolescents have a deep interest in.

Emmy’s head bobs as she looks over the page, her fingers tracing the archaic runes. “Mhm, my uncle taught me about them. He’s an archaeologist, too.”

Intrigue builds. “Really? May I ask his name? Perhaps I’ve met him in passing once or twice.”

She shrugs, her eyes still trailing over the rows of glyphs. “Probably not.”

“Ah.”

The sleeve of Emmy’s cardigan rides up her arm. Angry purples and indigos bloom on the exposed skin, peeking behind stripes of white bandage. Out of reflex the girl tugs her sleeve back to her wrist, but Hershel finds himself reeling. Lungs refuse to function.

Pieces of the puzzle fall into place. The mixtures of fresh and faded scars painting her knuckles. A combination of offensive and defensive.

The image that comes together makes Hershel feel sick to his stomach. He berates himself for jumping to conclusions, but the distress that charges through his bones cannot be unfounded.

But it isn’t his place. This girl is a complete stranger to him, whether or not they had met before. He does not know the story that lies in those bruises and scrapes, and he is not entitled to know.

Despite it all, a deep impulse to help this young person continues to wrench at his heart.

Layton clears his throat. “Miss Altava?”

“Just ‘Emmy’ is good.” Her attention remains focused on the old book.

The corner of Hershel’s mouth twitches upward. “Emmy,” he resumes, “I appreciate your desire to thank us personally, but isn’t there somewhere else you would rather spend your day? It is the weekend, after all.”

A pause. The dark hair spilling down her shoulders blocks the girl’s face from view, but a tension makes her back grow rigid. “No, not really.” It melts away as she turns toward him with a nonchalant grin. “I just kind of wander.”

“Wander?” Hershel asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

She nods, smile widening across her lips. “I walk around the city. It’s pretty nice.” Restless fingers tap at the desk’s marred surface, sending up tiny plumes of dirt. Her umber eyes grow muted, look off past the professor into a place he cannot perceive. “Lots of different people and places. Different stories.”

Although Hershel wasn’t fond of the idea of a teenager roaming alone through a vast metropolis, there were other underlying matters that robbed his attention.

He has no idea what to do.

One of the traits he most appreciates of his mentor and inspiration to teach, Dr. Schrader, was his approachability. His aim to guide his students in any aspect of life. He aspired to be that for people as well.

But Hershel has been a professor for just under a year. Offering a hand in difficult puzzles or providing exam strategies is nothing compared to decades worth of wise advice. In addition, he’s in the later part of his twenties, young in the eyes of the world. Coping with the challenges the universe deals out still eludes him as much now as when he was Emmy’s age.

Perhaps talking with her further is worth an attempt. He clears his throat again. “I feel that I must apologize, Emmy; I’m only on campus today because I had a meeting with the department and was planning to head home afterward. I’ll be walking as well, so would you perhaps like to join me? If not, I completely understand.”

Confusion drawing the girl’s thick brows together. No, no, was that too forward? Inappropriate? Anxiety tightens around Hershel’s ribs, hard to breathe. He raises his hands in a defensive manner; the tips of his fingers go numb. “If you’re uncomfortable with that in any way, please do not hesitate to tell me so,” he adds.

Cold ebbs from his spine, flows through his blood. His inner voice berates him. Shrouds around him in a dark mist, so cold.

Ridiculous. If the poor girl is being abused then what would give him any indication that she would go with some stranger?

There is no reason for her to trust him.

“Yeah.”

The word shakes Hershel from the fog. He blinks, seeing that her confused expression has warmed into a grin. “I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, I’d like to go for a walk,” she reiterates.

The icicles braiding in spirals around his veins begin to trickle away, thawing. “Good. Yes. Good.” He steps backward, making his way to his desk, a slight stumble as his loafer snags on a crack in the floor. “It’s just a few blocks away, and I believe Claire should be there by now,” he says over his shoulder, “She would be happy to see you as well.”

Layton pulls his brown jacket from the back of his chair and shrugs it on, followed by the sepia leather messenger bag slung over the armrest. He situates his garb, patting various pockets and the inside of his bag to be certain all the necessities were accounted for: hat, wallet, keys, the works. Everything checks out.

When he looks back at Emmy she is standing tall, satchel strap crossed over her torso, beaming. Faded scars interweaving between freckles like connecting stars. “Ready.”

Hershel gives her a smile in return. “Then off we go.”


	3. Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire and Hershel go into Parent Mode™.

Cool air bites in her lungs with each breath. Rough, dry, bitter. Laced with the oncoming frost soon on its way.

Her doctor said to take things easy, that she is still in recovery, but Claire cannot remember a single moment in her life when she had taken things easy. She's not sure if she knows how. In university she was known among her peers for always going the extra mile, even if it sacrificed a few nights’ sleep or social interaction.

Truth be told, she could have taken the car or the Underground. They were logical alternatives. It would have saved her the half hour it took to walk to and from the library and the energy of carrying the stack of thick tomes grasped in her arms. Digging into the crooks of her fingers, leaving them raw.

And yet, she had _wanted_ to walk.

Over the past months, the physicist had grown to love, to crave the sensation of fresh, crisp air swirling in her chest and brushing her face. The heat of pounding blood, stretching muscle. It keeps the idle numbness rolling beneath her flesh at bay.

However, it still comes as a huge relief when a familiar stoop grows closer with each step. Old brick that welcomes. An adventurous ivy tendril sneaks up the cast-iron railing, curling and spreading its dark green threads.

Claire trots up the stone steps, fumbles with the burden in her arms to reach for the door -

Wait.

A tired groan. “ _Dammit_ ,” she hisses, shifting the stack to balance on her right hip so she can fish through her coat pocket. Her fingers tap against something cold and thin, and she pulls the shining ring of keys into the open air.

There is a momentary juggle in her hand and the harsh clang of metal scraping metal. Somehow the proper key in the small collection clicks into the deadbolt slot, a melodic churn of tumblers as Claire turns her wrist. One final push, a step into the flat, a light kick with her heel to shut the door, and at last her morning trek reaches its end.

Upon entering the living room, she deposits the pile of books on the coffee table with a heavy thud. Claire rights herself, muscles lax from extended strain, and wipes away the sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand. She shuffles her jacket off her shoulders as she moves back into the foyer. In a smooth movement she sets it on one of the coat pegs in a row on the wall, then steps out of her trainers, leaving them on the shoe mat below.

Deep breaths, the stress unwinding from tendons and limbs. Cool floorboards sooth aching feet.

Claire decides that she deserves a cup of tea.

Afternoon sunlight, amber and warm, spills in through the kitchen window. The tea kettle perches in its usual spot on the stovetop, its porcelain surface pale blue and adorned with delicate white flowers. Placing it into the sink basin, Claire flicks on the tap, filling the kettle with a rush of cool water until it swells an inch beneath the lid’s opening.

A clack as the pot returns to its position on the stove. A twist of the knob to ignite the burner.

The motions are clockwork, practiced and embedded into muscle memory. Part of her.

With the water working to a boil, Claire pulls three tins forward from the collection at the back of the counter, the ink on their labels fading from constant use: dream fluff, brisk berry, and pepper cherry. Lids snap open with satisfying pops. She grabs a small spoon and a tea infuser from the silverware drawer, then takes modest scoops of each ingredient, sifting them into the round infuser before clicking it shut.

A glimmer catches her eye. Startled from her focus, Claire snaps her gaze down to her left hand.

Iridescent light refracts off the simple ring on her finger, sending bright speckles bouncing around the kitchen. She smiles down at it, wistful as she watches how the light curls over the pale pink stone at its crest; rose quartz, from what she remembers. A symbol of the heart, comfort, healing, and unconditional love.

Sentimental to the point where she could laugh, but the ethereal and light fluttering that rushes through her being is undeniable.

_FWEEEEEEEEEE--!!!_

A piercing screech rattles the air. Heart pounds, shaking, jerking around to find the source. _Heat, heat, burning._

Steam shoots in a whisking column from the kettle’s spout.

Claire gives the offending thing a scathing glare, but it’s unperturbed, still squealing away. Shaking her head, she grabs a potholder from above the stove and sets the kettle on a different burner, then shuts off the first. Lifting the lid, she sets the infuser into the boiling water to steep.

She releases a breath. It will be fine; her fingers will stop their quivering in a few minutes.

The time passes, and after pulling down a cup and saucer from the cabinet Claire settles back in the living room with her tea. The bright, rejuvenating scent wafts up from from her cup, warming her nose. Comforting and safe.

Claire picks up the top book from the pile she deposited on the way in. She sets it in her lap and trails her fingers over its worn cover, opens it and listens to the purr of the pages spilling down. _An Introduction to Institutional Corruption_. The musty smell of old tomes wafts around her, mingling with the aroma of Dream Spice. Her mind wanders back to late nights rushing to finish term papers, burying herself in piles of notes before a massive exam.

The knob of the front door clatters. Rush of brisk air as the hinges squeak.

“Claire?” a familiar voice calls. She perks up in her seat and places the book back down on the table along with her cup. As she gets to her feet the form of her husband-to-be steps into the entryway, a cheerful smile on his lips. Claire can’t help but mirror it as she crosses the room to embrace him.

“Welcome home, love,” she says, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Cold from the late autumn breeze. He returns it with a chuckle that spreads heat through Claire’s body to match the flush on his cheeks.

“Likewise, my dear.” He gives her an added peck on the forehead. Leaning back, he appears to look out the still open door, then gestures for someone past the threshold to come closer. “It’s all right; you may come in.”

A tussle of dark hair and a bright yellow sweater sidles through the doorway. It takes no time for a memory to spark in Claire’s mind.

“This is Emmy Altava,” Hershel says, “whom you may remember from the police station a number of weeks back.” The aforementioned teenager grins wide, the light flowing in from the open door flickering in her eyes.

Claire clasps the girl’s hand between both of hers. The skin is cold, hardened with callouses and scar tissue, but Claire smiles past it. “Yes, of course! It's lovely to see you again, Emmy.”

“It's nice to see you, too,” she replies with a laugh.

Upon releasing Emmy’s hand, Claire deems how rude it would be to send the girl off. “Would you like to rest a bit and have some tea? I just brewed some, still piping hot.”

Emmy does not answer, just stares like a startled deer. If anything, she looks baffled by the invitation.

The silence is disconcerting. “If you have other places you need to be, that’s fine as well,” Claire adds, hurried as concern grips her throat, writhes up her neck. Tight, sharp. Did she say something wrong? She looks to Hershel, desperate for another’s insight.

The professor offers a soft, empathetic smile, one that never fails to lessen any disquiet spiraling through her thoughts. “I, for one, could never turn down a cup of tea,” he says with a shrug.

Claire can’t hold back a smirk as the tension within her loosens, weakened by warmth. “I know _you_ want some,” she teases, bumping him in the chest with her fist. “I was asking our _guest_.”

A stifled giggle escapes the adolescent, her speckled cheeks filling with a renewed mirth. “Sure,” she responds at last.

Relief floods through Claire, pouring into a slow outward breath. “Wonderful,” she says, moving deeper into the living room. “I believe we have some biscuits as well. Would you like that?” The spark of delight that shines on Emmy’s face as she nods is all the answer Claire needs.

After shuffling off his coat and shoes, Hershel pads after her toward the kitchen. “I’ll help you, dear.” He pivots for a moment, facing back to the teenager, and adds a quick, “Make yourself at home,” to her before ducking into the kitchen.

Claire pulls down two teacups from the cabinet as Hershel steps beside her at the counter. She bumps his hip with her own, drawing a short laugh out of his chest. She smiles at him, at the creases in his cheeks, but questions begin bubbling to the surface. “How did you find her? She seems too young to be in university.”

Hershel grips a box of tea biscuits from the same cabinet, followed by a large plate. “Truth be told, she found us.” He lets out a faint chuckle at Claire’s raised brow. “After my meeting she was already in my office. She said Grosky gave her our names, and she covered the rest.”

“I see,” she muses aloud. Shuffling of the box and soft taps of cookies sliding onto ceramic. She reaches up once more, the clink of cups meeting their partnered saucers.

Thoughts wander, caught on the wind like the gossamer threads of a spider’s web.

How did she track them down? Claire was relieved to see the girl happy and well, of course, but unease still sits heavy in her gut. It had been just shy of a year since they submerged themselves under the radar, away from the spotlight of periodic headlines crammed into corners of the Times. The risks had grown too great.

Threads tangle, weaving, knotting. Fraying ends sprawling from their source, a broiling, nebulous mass. So loud, too many questions and fears echoing through the chaos. _What if what it whatIfWH ATI F -_

Silence.

The quiet is shocking, almost painful as Claire recalls the environment around her. She shakes her head and takes a deep breath to ground herself in the present. Sensation crawls back through her, fingertips on the cool counter, socked feet on smooth floorboards, twirling hair tickling at the back of her neck.

She looks to her company; glazed over eyes prove she was not the only one who grew lost in a maze of quandaries.

A slight pout in his lips, his jaw set and rigid. Forehead creased under the shadow of his hat brim as he stares transfixed to a realm beyond the wall. She can almost hear gears and cogs churning and whirring in his head, pondering over some conundrum.

Intrigue prickles in Claire’s stomach. She rests a palm on the man’s upper arm, guiding him back to the outside world to meet her gaze. She gives him a gentle smile. “What are you thinking about?”

Hershel’s mouth bobs open for an instant before clapping shut. After peering back into the living room he shepherds them toward the back door to the garden. Hunching closer to Claire, he lowers his voice into a breathy murmur. “I’m,” he pauses, fingers tracing the knuckles of his wringing hands, “concerned. I don’t want to make any premature decisions, but I have reason to believe that her home life is not of the most healthy.”

Claire feels like her body has been slammed into a wall, breath knocked out of her lungs, cold feathering up her limbs. “What gave you that indication?” she asks, her own tone hushing to match his.

“Well,” a muted grimace pulls at his face, “it’s not concrete evidence by any means, but under her cardigan her arms appear to be covered in wrapped gauze. I got a glimpse of rather nasty looking bruises there as well. Very recent.

“I’m considering calling the Yard and telling them what we know of the situation. Just so they have the information in case things escalate.” He appears to mull it over for a moment longer before setting his worried eyes to Claire’s. “What do you think?”

The physicist spares a final glance to the living room, where Emmy now has one of the library books on her lap and is carding through it. Claire releases a sigh through her nose, then looks back to Hershel. A number of red flags refuse to be ignored. “That seems like a good idea. Better to be safe than sorry, in my opinion.”

Uncertainty pulling at the man’s features lessens as a faint smile graces them, thankful for the reassurance. “I agree.” He leans over to press his lips against her temple, his breath warm as it brushes over her hair. “I’ll do that right now. Thank you.”

She looks on as he leaves through the doorway, down the hall to their office. With a wistful grin she moves back to the counter and picks up the plate of biscuits and the two cups, sets them on a serving tray, and then re-enters the living room.

Emmy looks up from the book balanced on her thighs, her expression inquisitive. “What is all this for? Research?” she asks.

Tightening heart. Claire releases a slow breath as she places the tray in the middle of the coffee table and sits beside Emmy on the couch. The smile on her lips warms as she turns to the teenager. “Yes. A number of months ago I was in an,” she gestures to the puckered scars reaching over her left cheek, “accident at work.”

The curiosity on Emmy’s face falters, her brow wrinkling in dismay. “That’s awful.”

A wave of melancholy rushes through the physicist, but her relaxed frontage is stalwart. “It was no walk in the park; I can assure you of that,” she says. “Hershel and I have had suspicions that something wasn’t quite right with the investigation and what lead up to the incident. We’ve been doing some investigating of our own since then.”

Understanding glints in youthful eyes. “So, is that why you were at the police station before?”

Claire gives a nod. “That’s exactly right. When time allows it, we look into what Scotland Yard has in their archives as a resource.” Something sharp tugs in her ribs, not quite anxiety, not quite fear. She distracts herself from it by placing the remaining five books on the floor, freeing space on the table. “It has taken a while, but I believe we’re getting close to uncovering something.”

As Emmy continues leafing through the book, Claire raises the tea kettle and fills the two empty cups. Feathery white plumes wisp from the rippling dark caramel. Soft purr of paper over paper stop; the physicist looks up.

The teenager’s eyes are locked on the platter of biscuits, gleaming like those of a fox trained on an oblivious young rabbit. Stiffening, she retracts back as if scalded. Her intense gaze meets Claire’s but is overshadowed by caution. Shying away.

An emptiness spreads, aching, ripping through Claire’s chest. She lifts the plate and holds it before Emmy, whose eyes snap to the offering, then settle on the older woman. Hesitation persists in her rigid shoulders.

Claire smiles. “It’s all right; have as many as you’d like.” She takes one for herself and bites into its crisp, buttery surface to prove they are safe.

The trepidation solidifying in the air beads out into a fine mist, pools along the floor as Emmy reaches out and takes a biscuit. Two. Upon seeing her host’s ease has not wavered she scoops up another three into her scuffed, ravenous hands with a murmur Claire translates to “thank you.”

“My apologies,” a deeper voice rings as its owner enters the living room from the entryway. The pair on the couch look up to see Hershel approaching with a rueful grin. “Just had to make a quick phone call.” He rounds the sofa and takes a seat in the burgundy wingback to their left, and Claire passes one of the steaming cups to him. The gentle smile lighting his face soothes the void in her chest. “Ah, thank you, my dear.”

Emmy resumes gnawing on her handful of biscuits, and in a matter of moments they are gone. Her attention turns to the final cup on the tray, and Claire lifts her own from where it was left on the coffee table.

Recollection flashes in Claire’s mind. “How was your meeting, by the way?” she asks, looking to the professor. With all the commotion it had slipped her mind.

Hershel shrugs and brings his tea to his lips. “The usual. Finances, applicant rates, possible events set for next semester.”

“So, bland?” Claire feels the tug of a smirk; she stifles it with a hearty drink.

A tickled huff escapes him, a smile peering over his cup. “Quite.” He takes a sip of the hot liquid, his expression serene. “It appears that your library visit was productive,” he adds, pointing to the pile of books on the carpet.

“Mmhm!” Claire swallows her mouthful of tea and reaches to the stack. “These three are corruption, these two are law, and this one is relational quantum mechanics, just for a little fun light reading.”

A loud sputter brakes the quiet atmosphere. Hershel pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and passes it to Emmy before Claire can process the sound’s source. Protective instinct surges within the physicist, an outstretched hand hovering behind Emmy’s back while the other places the tea at a safe distance.

“Are you all right?” she asks, forcing down the panic constricting her being.

The girl coughs into the sheer fabric, her voice strained by the misplaced tea in her throat. “ _Light_ reading?”

Ticking of the grandfather clock ripples through the still air.

Pressure builds in Claire’s lungs, struggling to break free. The harder she wrestles to keep it contained, the more it resists her defence. It’s a lost cause when a snort flees through her nose, and she forces the side of her hand to her mouth.

Two startled gazes look back at her.

A grin wiggles its way onto Hershel’s face as his shoulders quiver against bottled laughter. Their eyes meet, and all hope for retaining composure is gone. Giggles and chuckles surge through the room. Echoing off each other, unsure what they began laughing at in the first place, but the mere fact that the other is jovial keeps the cycle flowing.

Claire catches a glimpse of Emmy smiling along beside her. Joy blossoms in the warmth and glee, soft roots branching and wreathing around her ribs.

The trio converse well into the afternoon.

Most of the discussion consists of Emmy asking various questions of the older couple between cookies shoved into her maw and careful sips of tea; places they have been, cases they have solved. Trips they’ve gone on throughout the world for work as well as leisure. From consulting with the Yard to puzzles they have received in the post. Emmy hangs wide eyed on every word.

The attention is not something Claire nor Hershel are accustomed to, and they stumble a bit on chronology and minute details, but the opportunity to talk with someone new and eager to listen is refreshing. It takes them outside the glass dome they have secluded themselves to.

All the while shadows stretch across the living room rug. Tree branches like crooked, mangled hands, reaching.

The tea kettle sits empty and cold after three full servings of Dream Spice. Claire looks up from the fourth chapter of _Commentaries on the Laws of England: Volume 1_ to see Hershel and Emmy kneeling over a map spread across the cleared coffee table. The archaeologist points to arbitrary spots across the worn, unfurled paper, a grin on his face as he chatters on about the various locations. Emmy follows his fingertip, her head tilted in interest as she listens.

The grandfather clock sings five low tones.

Emmy stiffens. Her eyes freeze on the small clock on the mantle across from her. The calm fades, falls, dread taking the place of her former contentment.

“ _Shit_.” The sound hits her teeth, sharp as it hisses past her lips. She jumps to her feet, scrabbling for her bag and sweater. “I’m sorry, but I have to go,” she stammers out, not meeting the eyes of her hosts.

Jarred by the shift, Claire glances to her fiance, whose confusion mirrors her own. They rise up to stand. “Is everything all right?” Hershel asks the frazzled adolescent. He stretches out a hand, an offer to help.

Emmy struggles with the buttons of her cardigan, satchel limp at her elbow as she hurries into the entryway. “It’s getting late, and my uncle will be wondering where I am.” Hershel and Claire follow after, worry etched in their brows.

“Would you like us to give you a ride and drop you off nearby where he is?” the physicist suggests. “I assume it would be quicker.”

Long, dark ringlets bounce to and fro as Emmy shakes her head. “I don’t want to be any trouble,” she replies, stamping her heel into one scraped boot followed by the other.

The couple glance back to each other. Claire feels her own concerns prickling in her skull, and she sees them reflected in Hershel’s eyes. The front door clicks and squeaks open. “It would not be any trouble, but we understand. Please be safe.”

“And if you ever just want to talk or anything of the like, feel free to stop by. We’ll be here,” Hershel adds as a cool breeze wafts through the foyer.

The teenager hesitates in the doorway, the low sun forming a halo of gold around her silhouette. Dancing on loose curls of her hair. The glare is strong, blinding, but Claire is certain she sees the distress coating her face flicker. Shock. A hint of a smile. “Okay,” she replies, her voice light. “Thanks.”

With a turn on her heel, Emmy bounds down the front stoop and vanishes from sight.

••••••••••••••••••

Purples accent the darkening sky, soft magenta bleeding into deep indigo. A sliver of golden light fights to survive in the growing darkness, cut into pieces by the sea of chimneys and roofs.

Buildings blur past. Pedestrians. Automobiles. Boots slam against the sidewalk, a steady thrum as the world glazes by in a smeared disarray. Oil paints running into a mass of mud and sludge.

The bus would take too long.

It’s quicker to run. Winding side streets and alleys, loud splashes through puddles of runoff trapped between cobbles. Another maze imprinted in her mind, branded on her cerebrum for eternity. She chases the shadows as they crawl across the pavement. Running ink pooling in drains and curbs.

The city grows sordid around her. Boarded up windows and doors draped in shadow. Dilapidated homes and businesses abandoned long ago, their sole occupants being the gloom that watches behind grimy, tattered curtains. Cats, dogs, and rats, bones sharp beneath their skin, pick through the spilled innards of sideways trash bins. They scatter as Emmeline’s footfalls draw near.

An eternal fog creeps along the ground, thick and pale. Smell of humidity and corroded metal.

The alleys open up to a complex, dull gray sky over a small cluster of plain buildings framed by tall wire fencing. Relief courses through her so fast she feels dizzy. She trots up to the fence, and her fingers grip the cold steel. Her gaze sweeps over the silent Targent satellite facility. Few lights prick the group of structures, curfew in full effect.

Two agents stand on constant guard at the front entrance. The gate looms a few hundred meters away around a corner of the fencing, stale light spilling from two lamps perched above it. Getting in the usual way will guarantee an issue.

Emmeline scales up the chain links with ease. They give and creak under her weight, but in mere seconds her boots meet the dirt and dry grass on the other side. She crouches down on the balls of her feet, low to the ground, waiting in silence for any sign of detection.

Distant echoes of rumbling cars, piercing sirens, howling dogs. White noise of a metropolis.

Assured that she was not spotted, Emmeline slinks along the crisp soil, keeping to the shadows cast by the compound. The earth crunches beneath her boots as she rounds the back to the largest of the buildings: the dormitory. Dull cement block interrupted by spare windows, hulking, dim, and frigid as it towers above her. She draws closer, approaching a drainpipe reaching down to its foundation. Fingertips brush the cold metal, and a hollow drone resonates up the multiple floors.

The teenager takes a step back to shake the tension out her limbs, and she tightens the strap of her bag so it stays flush against her torso. One final glance up to her destination, third floor, four windows to the right. She grips her hands around the pipe, just above where a long strip of metal holds it secure to the building. The sole of her boot presses firm to the rough facade.

A push up from her grounded foot, and Emmeline’s on her way.

The flow is mechanical, practiced, second-nature as she scales the dormitory. Flesh tugging on her hands as they reach up to support her weight, and toes scraping for friction on the coarse mortar and block. Alternating arms and legs like a chameleon’s, hidden under the cover of impending night.

As Emmeline reaches the proper height her lungs burn, and her limbs feel loose and heavy, but the climb is almost complete. She reaches out to a nearby window sill, then clasps onto the narrow space. Harsh grit biting her fingers. Her other hand releases the pipe and does the same, giving her body enough momentum to swing over, and her boots connect with the trim of the window below.

So far, so good.

More sidling, grabbing, and heaving as the girl inches her way across the building’s face. Sweat beads on her face, runs in her eyes, and her muscles quake in overuse, but she has to push forward or else it all will come to a very painful end.

When she stops beneath the fourth window Emmeline can’t help a deep sigh of relief. She presses a palm to the cold glass above, then drags toward the center. The window gives a creak and shudders in the direction of her hand, and she’s so glad she didn’t lock it today.

Repeated slaps and pulls on the pane until her hand tingles. Just enough space to reach an arm through and grip the opposite sill. Her other arm stretches to push the window open the rest of the way, a gap just large enough for her to slip through. Being one of the smallest in combat training has its benefits.

Reach, pull, jump, lift. Ledge jabbing into her abdomen, fingers trembling as she hauls herself inside and tumbles onto the floor. She lands flat on her back and staring at the ceiling, the entire room cast in shadow.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” she huffs, her lungs searing as she drinks in the cool air.

“You’re late.”

Alarm flares, seizing her heart in volts of lightning and sparking through wearied sinews, resurrecting them back to life. Emmeline whirls to her feet in a swift movement, feet spread in a firm stance and fists prepared for a scuffle.

A figure melds from the shadows. Tall with graying hair that sweeps in waves around their head and down their jaw. The dying light pouring through the window catches on angular features and a pair of dark lenses.

Emmeline chokes back a wave of nausea.

“Well?” the man presses, his voice one step away from a growl. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Her fists fall limp at her sides along with her gaze, shame creeping in her blood. “I’m sorry, Uncle Leon. I lost track of the time.”

Silence is torturous. Distant sounds of the city ebb through the open window and swirl in the air.

Bronev walks toward her. She tenses in reflex, eyes clamped shut and shoulders tight. Bracing herself for what may come.

He brushes past.

The teenager stands there for a moment, petrified, expecting a sting that does not singe her flesh. She spins around to see the hall light pouring down on her guardian from the open door, his face unreadable in the harsh contrast. “I’ll let it pass this once, but don’t let it happen again,” he says.

As he steps over the threshold, Bronev looks back. Hidden eyes hard and piercing, watching her every shift and twitch. “This is a luxury, Emmeline. It can be taken away if I find you do not deserve it.”

Plunged into void as the door clicks shut, deafening in the stillness.

Echoes of footsteps on the worn tile fade, whispers of wandering ghosts. Slipping away into nothing.

Alone.

Emmeline eases off her bag, and the strap slides out of her hand. A _thump_ as it hits the floor.

Without warning, a surge breaches its banks, flooding in — the exhaustion, the dread, the humiliation — deluging to fill the chasm in her chest. Dull agony that cannot be attributed to any muscle or nerve, just pain. Its weight drags her down, iron chains, drowning.

She sinks to the floor, back rigid against the metal spokes at the foot of the bed. Pulling her legs up to her chest, Emmeline presses her sweat-slicked forehead against her knees, fingers like claws on her jeans. Adrenaline bleeds out, leaving her wrung out and raw.

No crying. No tears. They are not the signs of a diligent, loyal soldier.

Instead, bottle it up and stow it away with the dust and darkness. Numb, detached, comfort in the emptiness.

Allow the static to consume it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long with this update. I had a difficult time getting through this chapter, but in the end I'm pretty content with the result. Also, I bumped up the rating because things will likely get darker from here on.
> 
> Thank you as always for the supportive comments and kudos!!! ;o;


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